Standing in the entry of her home, reflecting on the life of the woman I adored, a pain stabbed me in the portion of my heart which belonged to her. I stared at the disaster in disbelief. How could the woman I remember end up in a rat hole like this? The carpet was old and threadbare, the paint on the cupboards was faded and worn, the fixtures on the sink were dated, and the furnishings were anything but sophisticated. This could not have been the home in which Sophie exhaled her last breath.
I walked back outside and looked at the address. I looked at the copy of her will in my hands. The number on the house was 3644. I re-read the 2nd paragraph of her will:
"To my darling niece, Berlyn: I leave my home, and all of the contents
therein, at 3644 East Rosewood Lane."
I must be on the wrong street. I stepped to the sidewalk, and looked at the sign four houses down. It read Rosewood Lane. I knew I was in the right city, and this was the right street, the right house number, yet I stood there in disbelief. I took a deep breath, and turned around to go back into the house.
As my eyes adjusted to the change in light, I blinked several times. I decided to explore this humble abode with new light. It wasn't dirty. It was just SO full of stuff. She had collections everywhere. I walked into the kitchen, and examined the collection of salt and pepper shakers. I admired a cute set consisting of a coconut and palm tree. What would I do with all of these?
I turned and walked down the hall. I opened the first door on the right. I gasped when I looked inside. The room was full of stacks of magazines and newspapers, with an easy chair in the middle of the room. It was the most bizarre thing I'd ever seen in my life. On the floor was a small stack of magazines. I was so overwhelmed with the strangeness of the scene, I sat down in the chair. It was oversized and very comfortable. The only thing that made me believe it could belong to Sophie was that it was red. The exact shade of red I remember the color of her lipstick being. I looked again around the room, and wondered why anyone would save all of this crap, especially my Aunt Sophie. I reached down to the stack of magazines, and began to flip through the first one in the stack.
It was a Vogue magazine from October of last year, the same month that Sophie died. It took the lawyers several months to find me, as it had been twenty years since my mom and Sophie had their falling out. My mind wandered to that fateful day as I turned the pages of the magazine without really observing the images on the pages. About half-way through the magazine, a hundred dollar bill fell out into my lap. How strange was that? Why would she use a hundred dollar bill as a bookmark? But then again, this was Aunt Sophie, and she was extravagant. At least the Sophie I remembered, anyway. Maybe she kept these magazines and newspapers for a reason. I figured I'd better go through them, and see if any of them were worth something. But not today.
I got up too quickly, and my head begun to spin. I lost my balance and tripped over the stack of magazines next to the chair, landing on the floor sprawled out flat on my face.
"Glad no one saw me do that!" I thought to myself.
I started to pick the magazines back up, and stack them neatly where they were. As I picked the first one up, a paper slipped out onto the ground. It was another hundred dollar bill. What was up with that? Ok, who leaves a hundred dollar bill in one magazine, much less two? I picked up another magazine, and started to flip through it. Sure enough, there was another hundred dollar bill inside. I grabbed the next magazine. I noticed that this hundred dollar bill was in between pages 47 and 48. I picked up the next magazine, and flipped to page 47. No bill. I flipped the page, and between 49 and 50 sat another hundred dollar bill. I looked up from the magazine and around the room. Surely there wasn't money sitting in each magazine. I turned my head slowly to the other side of the room where newspapers were stacked neatly from floor to ceiling. I started flipping madly thorough the magazines next to me. I 'd emptied out a hundred dollar bill from each of the 20 magazines in the small stack next to me. With a bewildered look on my face, I stared at the $2,000 sitting in my lap.
My jaw dropped.
I got up and walked out of the "newsroom" and into the kitchen. I dug my cell phone out of my purse. I called the office, and left my boss a voicemail.
"This is Berlyn, and I just wanted to thank you for giving me the week off to take care of my Aunt Sophie's business. There's been something I've wanted to tell you for a long time: I QUIT mutha fucka!"
I hung up the phone, and my heart pounded wildly. I looked toward heaven as I screamed: "I love you, Aunt Sophie!"
© 2007, Yvonne Michelle
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P.S. Thanks,
for the writing prompt! 
